


Untangle

by murkfree



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alexandria Safe-Zone, Bittersweet, F/M, Hair Brushing, One Shot, Season/Series 05, Season/Series 06, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 09:29:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12429906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murkfree/pseuds/murkfree
Summary: Everyone needs to look presentable for a formal funeral in Alexandria.  Daryl lets Carol comb his hair.





	Untangle

**Author's Note:**

> This is my FIRST Caryl fic. In fact, this is the first fic of ANYTHING I've ever written (and finished) in my life. Set between seasons 5 and 6. I tried my darnedest to be true to character.
> 
> This was originally posted on NineLives in August (and can still be found on my NineLives page). 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own anything or anyone! No copyright infringement is intended.

The screen door closed softly behind her as she stepped out onto the porch.  Daryl didn’t turn around; he knew who it was by her footsteps.  A cool breeze brushed his face as she sat down beside him on the steps.  “Made you some coffee,” she said.

 

“Thanks.”  He took the cup and stared at it intently.  The steam was thick, curling violently in its hurry to get away from the surface of the liquid.  Through the screen door, he could hear footsteps, the clatter of plates and forks, Rick speaking quietly to Michonne.  He cut his eyes sideways to Carol.  Like him, she had dressed all in black: neat slacks and boots, a lacy sweater, even an intricate little choker with an ornament in the shape of a black rose.  As ever at Alexandria, he felt like he could still see the blood and dirt on her clothes and skin, clinging to her, somehow _under_ her tidy cleanliness.  It was the same when he looked at any member of his family.  He saw it on himself as well, in the mirror each morning after washing up. 

 

“You sleep alright?” he asked her. 

 

“I drank some of that valerian tea Denise gave me,” she admitted.  “I knew I was gonna be too wound up otherwise.”

 

“Yeah, s’weird, right?  Having a real funeral?  Kept me up thinkin’ too.”  Between Atlanta and Alexandria, they had buried dozens of their dead, laying them to rest with Bible verses and simple wooden crosses.  Daryl remembered all too well the empty grave at the prison where he had once placed a Cherokee rose.  But those burials had been nothing like the service they would attend this morning—in a church with a preacher, guests wearing black, flowers by the altar, even goddamn _refreshments_.  Nothing like that for Merle, nor for Sophia. 

 

“I don’t know whether it’s a good thing, or another sign that these people are too soft…or if it means anything at all,” Carol said quietly.  Her blue eyes looked far away, fingers kneading the handle of her mug.

 

After a long moment, she turned her face to him, an unexpected hint of a smile on her lips.  She set down her coffee mug and rummaged in her sweater pocket to produce a small blue comb.  “Mind if I work on those tangles?”

 

In spite of himself, Daryl had to smile.  “You heard me fuckin’ it up in the bathroom?”  At dawn a half hour before, he had stood dripping in front of the sink, muttering a colorful streak of curses as he tried to use his fingers to work out the knots in his hair that had probably been there for months.  More out of support for Rick than out of respect for the occasion, he had showered and donned a black button-down.  His hair, however, had completely eluded him.

 

“Might’ve heard _something_.  Here, you stay there, I’ll sit behind.”  She moved up to the step above him and slid in behind his back, her knees opening to make room for his shoulders.  An alarm deep in his gut pulsed uncomfortably at the contact with his back, but subsided when she laid a gentle hand on the crown of his head.  “This okay?” she asked.

 

“Yeah.” 

 

Daryl felt Carol’s fingers stroking through his hair, tender and soothing.  The tip of the comb ran down his scalp.  After dividing off a section of hair, she began at the ends, carefully teasing out each tangle.  “You just let me know if I’m pulling too hard.”

 

She was very good at this.  Daryl was always on edge inside the walls, but under her touch he relaxed his guard just slightly, feeling his jaw unclench and his shoulders drop.  Inside the house, Carl’s voice joined Rick’s and Michonne’s in their breakfast chatter.  An image of Deanna’s husband, cold and still in the ground, came unbidden to his mind.  At least the man had been spared from becoming a walker.  He wondered if Carol was thinking of him too; Deanna’s insistence on holding a proper funeral had caused the death to loom large in everyone’s minds.

 

“Morning, Carol!  Morning, Mr. Dixon!”  Daryl started slightly at the neighbor lady’s voice.  Ella, was it?  Louisa?  He had no idea.  She stood on the sidewalk on the other side of the street, eyebrows raised slightly at the two of them together, but otherwise managing her facial expression with prim Virginia propriety.  Awkwardly, Daryl raised a hand in greeting.  Carol spoke for both of them in that fake voice he hated.

 

“Morning, Gina.  Save us a couple of seats at the church?”

 

“Sure will, honey.  I hope you’re bringing those cookies of yours to the reception?”

 

“Sure am.  See you in a while!  God bless!”  One of Carol’s hands left Daryl’s head, no doubt waving at Gina as she continued on down the sidewalk. 

 

Fixing his coffee with a black glare, Daryl made a “hmph” sound deep in his throat.  He was just about to mumble that he ought to be getting inside for breakfast, his hair be damned, when he felt Carol’s breath close to his ear.  “I went to her house the other day.  You know she collects porcelain owls?  That was what she saved during the evacuation.  Not food, not medicine.  _Porcelain owls_.  They were all in her living room, staring at me like a bunch of deer in the headlights.”

 

Daryl snorted, then gave a full-on chuckle.  He could just imagine that woman rushing around her house stuffing a duffel bag with porcelain owls, standing on tiptoe to grab one off the top of a bookshelf, while helicopters rained down napalm and the dead were walking.

 

“Wonder if I should bring her a real owl for dinner sometime?” he said.  He twisted his head around to meet Carol’s eyes and saw she was barely keeping back a grin.  At the look on his face she broke out laughing too, her eyes crinkling in that familiar way that was sweet and right and real.  Daryl’s heart did a somersault, clumsy as a newborn fawn.  He missed her like this.

 

As he turned his head back to face the street, Carol resumed her patient negotiations with his hair.  She brushed a finger over his left ear, lingering at his temple.  “Hmm, you have some grey starting here.”  Her nail rubbed a little circle over the spot.  “Matches your beard.”

 

Shifting his weight to lean back slightly against her thighs, Daryl reached up and caught her hand in his.  It was as much as he dared.  He kept his gaze fixed on the implausibly green strip of grass between the sidewalk and the street.  “Guess everything changes, doesn’t it?”

 

Her fingers wrapped around his and squeezed.


End file.
